


Insult and Assault.

by orphan_account



Series: pressure points [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, His Last Vow Spoilers, M/M, Sibling Incest, Well a bit spoilery anyway, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It does nothing for his worrying, but it's not like Sherlock won't always try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insult and Assault.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Incest (which is honestly quite self-explanatory going by the pairing but in case you ended up here by accident and incest puts you off please don't read it.)

Expensive coffee, expensive cigar, expensive cologne: oppressive, calculated to intimidate.

"Leave."

Sherlock has barely just slipped in, but even the click of the closing door is obdurate. Mycroft doesn't look up from his file.

"I'm busy", he states. Sherlock says nothing, just stands, looks. 

It's late afternoon, and it occurs to Sherlock that it's almost always the only time of day he's been in Mycroft's office; the only time of day when the fading sun filters weakly into this microcosm of England in an attempt to thaw its imperial rigidity. Sherlock's known it to succeed sometimes.

Not today. Today, there is silted worry that sits rigid on his brother's mouth, like the ring that sits rigid in his coat. He slips out of it, and its rustle to the floor draws one quirked, cognizant brow from Mycroft. Mycroft, who anticipates leagues ahead, as though it's as easy as breathing.

Sherlock is unbuttoning. Unbutton, shed, unbutton, shed.  He steps out of his pants, kicks it away. Mycroft is fixed pointedly on his file in mulish pique.

Despicable man. Deplorable, especially when he's not paying Sherlock any heed, especially when Sherlock is actively seeking it. He turns over a page, disinterested, disdainful, so, so  very vexatious. Sherlock crosses the room and rips it from his grasp, tosses it into one dark corner, pushing the chair back just enough to mount his affronted brother. The edge of the table is a cold, hard, smooth line on Sherlock's bare back. Mycroft's gaze is as cold and as hard, but razor sharp, lacerating. Sherlock revels in it, catches him by the nape, pushes into his hair.

"Changed your mind? Mycroft asks, bored with his little brother, although his pulse is jumping trifold. Breathing is suddenly not quite as easy as prognostication, and the stirring between them is exquisite.

"No."

Mycroft expresses disapproval with a sudden pinch to his thigh, and Sherlock retaliates with a snip to Mycroft's ear, reaching down to grab Mycroft by his sprained wrist. He grunts, to Sherlock's sadistic pleasure, jaw tightening, and his fingers, hovering over Sherlock's thigh, shoot up to fist his hair. Jerk him down and kiss him. Hard.

For a while, it's just hot breath and clashing teeth as they bite into each other. His eyelashes brush Sherlock's cheek.

"Drop Lady Smallwood's case", he baits, withdrawing lips.

Sherlock bites.

"No."

They push. They pull. Sherlock ducks his head, puts a warm tongue against Mycroft's throbbing pulse, a warm hand between them.

Mycroft bucks. "Drop it."

"Mmm." He rubs against the impeccable trousers and takes a filthy pleasure when he soils it, because he enjoys this: soiling Mycroft, rumpling rigorous lines, marring smooth skin, taking him to the precipice of propriety and tipping him over with sweat and spit and spunk. "No."

"Don't make me stop you, Sherlock."

"As though you ever could."

Mycroft sighs his age-long suffering over his age-long recalcitrant brother, and ruins it with hitched breath that the sound of his zipper doesn't cover. Sherlock is, at the moment, entirely a deft palm and a clever wrist, and they both love it.

"I'd rather not start a war over this."

"Oh, you're no pacifist", Sherlock plants a sloppy kiss, and it's almost affectionate. "Don't pretend otherwise."

"Unnecessary wars, Sherlock. Detriment to our kind, it's proven", Mycroft murmurs between kisses. Sherlock hums, tastes low tar in his brother's mouth.

"Pragmatic idealism."

" _Really_ , Sherlock.  Albee? Although I do suppose drama is better suited for you. Homosexual heretic, despairing at society, thriving in theater, even better than cross-dressing.

 Sometimes he has no idea what Mycroft's on about. He'd sooner strangle himself with Mycroft's tie than admit it.

"If you want to see me in a dress Mycroft, all you have to do is ask."

Mycroft abandons his hair, leaving his scalp faintly tingling, to caress his throat, skate across a nipple, down his stomach, between his legs. Sherlock's blood rushes, hot, welters through his veins.

"Why?"

An inquisition born of curiosity, not one of those formulated just to assuage how much he knows, or test him. Mycroft tilts his head back to better observe him, and Sherlock's in love with the way the sunlight falls into his brother's eyes.

"Why not?"

"Impolitic." Mycroft says, and his eyelashes flutter.

"Why, leader of the free-world and a businessman has you on your knees?"

The glare is far too scathing, so Sherlock tightens his fingers, picks his pace. He's barely begun to regard the heady flush blooming across Mycroft, when Mycroft tugs quicker and pleasure unfurls  between his thighs, as heady as Mycroft's flush, and rolls through him sweetly. Sherlock buries his face in Mycroft's neck, inhaling him. One of them moans. Both of them sweat.

Mycroft, unfortunately, fails to shut up.

"Why him, Sherlock?"

Mycroft twists his wrist with practiced precision, and Sherlock is glad he didn't injure that one. He squeezes the one he did, and when Mycroft grows slicker in his hand, Sherlock is delighted with discovery. They're going to have to repeat. Soon.

"He's a bully. The western world requires –", he gasps and presses closer, presses into Mycroft's skin because Mycroft is doing a clever thing with his hand again, because Mycroft keeps doing clever things – "my help."

"Ah, I'd forgotten of your pietas to the welfare of the weak."

"Nothing virtuous about it," Sherlock reminds him with a decadent curl of toes against calves. Mycroft doesn't disagree, just thrusts, and this always has Sherlock's stomach tightening, when Mycroft capitulates to feverish pleasure. Then they're both grunting and sighing, and then Mycroft's suit is more soiled than ever.

For a few orgasm-blurry moments they don't speak, and Sherlock listens to his brother's heart, counts seconds catching between one beat and the next, and then he counts his own, sticky hand now laced with another sticky hand, palms pressed together. Sherlock can only wish to rip away the worry as easily as ripping a file out of his hands, but Mycroft will always cling to his worrying, cling to it like a lifeboat.

"You're being melodramatic, Mycroft", he says.

"Don't be stupid", Mycroft tells his shoulder.

"I'm very careful."

"You're really not."

"No." Sherlock pauses in agreement, because agreeing with Mycroft is always somewhat strange. "Not changing my mind."

"Then why are you here?"

Sherlock draws back to kiss his brother and strokes a thumb over Mycroft's wrist with the gentleness he isn't wont to display. An apology.

"To insult you."

"Insult and assault are not synonymous, Sherlock."

"Assault? Is this what assault is?" Sherlock kisses him, soft as a petal.

"I'd say so", Mycroft says.

Sherlock assaults him again. And again. Until breathing is, once again, not quite that easy.

"Eat some cake Mycroft", Sherlock says as he leaves, after many long minutes. "Eat a cake for me, and I promise not to die."

Much later, and out loud to John, he wonders through a morphine haze if Mycroft ate that cake. John laughs.

Yes, he probably did.


End file.
